​
Should I be worried
that a doctor of Psychiatry
is now following me on Twitter?
Perhaps my Freudian
slip is showing.



Picture: depositphotos.com #85441300, standard license

Trust

Under the perigee moon, we laugh and make tracks in the snow,
exhale the tension of this day into the care of a faithful Creator
who checks it off in his book and works it into a pattern for good
because He promised He would when we love Him.

Driving Spell

Snow swirls, sweeps
over dark asphalt like mist
off brooding cauldron.
Black ice with feathery white veil,
a witches' brew of trouble.
Minus 35 chill and all's not well,
it's a wint'ry wicked driving spell.

Migration

Migration

The dotted lines rise skyward, spaced evenly

like kindergarteners on a knotted rope

taking a field trip to a southern zoo

but instead of singing a tune

we hear the occasional cry

It’s my turn to lead

wings sweep away

with mechanical whirr

no teacher in sight

Morning Coffee

Low light on frigid peaks near and far.
Snow highlights unmoving heads of spruce
solid frozen mid November’s premature death.
Last gasp of the river escapes in a ghostly
blanket under shortened sun.
I shiver inside, robed and slippered
grasp the cup
drink your words

Ode of Halley’s Mother

Some hold their children like trophies

Look at what I’ve done

I’ve won the prize

Isn’t it perfect? Aren’t I good?

And theirs sit on the shelf

in the corner, gather dust

lifeless, boring prettiness

until boxed up and carried away

I watch you like a comet

rage across the sky

fly in the face of reason

flee all that burns of me

You play in black holes

and return unscathed

In your path is passion

laughter, drive

My setting sun glows

you rise to music

dash about time

shield your eyes to my light

In need of nothing

you feed on your own fire

forge personal trophies

spill sparks of your day to me

Rule of Thirds

Early morning rises smoky
pink on gray granite
then fades to spotless blue over
brown and yellow shreds of late autumn

I focus my time lapse stare
on bare ranges, every peak
an undressed mannequin
waiting winter’s white dress

A honking flock sweeps past
the lone foreground spruce
in slow motion cinematic triumph
eludes capture

Coffee Rations

He looks me in the eye,

expresses gentle thanks

accepts the gift card I say

in the name of Jesus

pressing his arm so he knows

Touch and Who answered

the prayer from those blue 

eyes set on a leathery field

framed with scrub brush

The flag of his face follows

me to the car, drapes itself

over the passenger seat

and my mind

wanders along streets of militant

people who drove

his retreat to that

corner on this day

in the shy way

rain does not wish to fall 

on the just 

Divided

Orange sun rises 
to do battle with clouds 
and the shy rain hesitates 
to take sides.

On Campus

I say the long goodbye; leave you to your freshman start.
I feel six years old, clutch my brown paper bag of penny candy
want to cry over more inside than the melting chocolate
(they say bittersweet is the healthiest kind)
Is that what’s smeared on my face? It tastes wet and salty.
As our wheels crunch over pungent autumn,
the growing distance between us fills with falling leaves
until I cannot see you for the blur and flutter
of my eyes.

Prairie Storm

Rumbling thunder. Loud. Close.
Hail. Pea size. Heavy.
Raindrops. Large.
Love that deafening roar 
when I'm cosy dry 
safe in my little trailer.